


Carved in Stone

by buffypeppers



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Steve Rogers & Avengers - Freeform, Steve Rogers Feels, Unreliable Narrator, couldn't get this little idea out of my head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-12-06 23:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18226742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffypeppers/pseuds/buffypeppers
Summary: There is a name carved in the stone. Ragged edges, old. Steve’s name, to be more specific.It makes Steve wonder about a lot of different things, one of them being what if HYDRA had gotten their hands on him? If they had tortured him and then put him in a cell, would he had forgotten his name too, would he had needed to carve repeatedly his own name in a wall just to cling to that little sense of self for a bit longer?Steve has been finding a prisoner’s name written deep in the walls of different HYDRA cells and his mind can’t stop but wonder about the man’s life.Things are a bit more complicated than that.





	Carved in Stone

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve spent a lot of time listening to Interstellar’s soundtrack writing this so maybe that sets a bit the mood. That and Phil Collin’s ‘In the Air Tonight’

The hall is narrow, dark with only some fluorescents flickering over his head, the air humid, the walls sticky with God knows what… In conclusion, the place is doing its best to remind you that you’re in an abandoned underground HYDRA facility.

“All clear,” says Sam’s serene voice through the comm, closely followed by Natasha relaying the same information from her and Clint’s level.

“That’s not the word I would use, Wilson,” Tony’s voice is the one now in his ear. “Ew, _what_ is that? What did I just step on?” There’s silence for a few seconds, all the team sure that’s not the end of it. After a few moments, all of them can hear the unmistakable whine of a repulsor firing. “Did you hear that? I had to repulsor-blast this shit off me!”

Steve snorts, his end of the comm silenced so he knows there won’t be any chances of Tony having his ego boosted and then trying too hard to be funny, turning his monolog into a late night standup. He is funny, Steve can recognize that—not in front of Tony, though, because then the man gets like a dog with a new toy.

The chatter goes on from one teammate to another but Steve doesn’t pay them more attention than the strictly necessary to control the situation. This was supposed to be just one more raid, but the facility ended up being almost empty, save for a bunch of soldiers and some scientists. It looks like HYDRA hasn’t been doing that great since 2014.

“Buck, how are things on your end?” Steve asks, taking a left on a corner.

“Just a scientist,” is his answer. His tone doesn’t give anything away and Steve wishes he could see his face. It’s not the first HYDRA base he’s been with Bucky to; not even the first Bucky has been alone to. Still, it makes Steve uneasy.

“Everything okay?” He tries to keep the fussing to a minimum and most of the times he succeeds, but today is most certainly not one of these days.

“Yes, Steve, I didn’t lose my marbles and kill her. She’s alive and I’m taking her to the jet.” There is a bit of annoyance in there.

“Sorry,” Steve has to apologize, feeling his face go all hot. He doesn’t want Bucky to feel like he’s being babied, especially not when all the team can hear it and Tony and Clint can later make all kind of inappropriate and annoying jokes. 

Steve keeps marching down the hallways, following the blinking lights. The levels are clear and everyone who needed to be captured has been dealt with; then what is he doing getting deeper into the base?

“Cap, we’re getting out of here, where are you?” Tony asks. There are more voices in the background so the others must already have rendezvoused.

“Give me a moment,” he answers, forcing himself not to sound too distracted while he checks the map of the level he’s still on. Tony doesn’t seem to catch anything weird in his voice so he continues his conversation with Natasha on his end. “Mute the comms unless it’s for an emergency.” Tony is very obviously about to snark back something at Steve but someone silences his comm.

Steve breathes then, inhales deeply even when it feels like there’s less oxygen here, so many feet underground. He hasn’t told his teammates what he’s doing on his own here—hasn’t told them every time he decided to wander on his own the last bunch of HYDRA facilities they raided. It’s not dangerous and it’s not a secret. It’s just… He’s not sure; perhaps he could call it a mystery? One no one cares about; one that will probably never be solved.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. Steve speeds up. He feels like he recognizes some of his surroundings, now, all of the HYDRA installations sharing the distribution of some areas. Steve pushes the double doors; he’s prepared for the smell and it still hits his senses like a sledgehammer, forcing him to take a step back, almost closing the doors and scurrying out of here. He’s come so far so he pushes forward, one hand over his nose and mouth, the leather of his glove doing nothing to conceal the reek. There is no possible way there are people here—not alive, at least. Even if this is the case, he has to make sure and report later.

It’s darker in here and it almost looks like the walls are exuding some dark fluid but it could perfectly well be old blood and shit and—if Steve is lucky enough, this time it will only be cerebral matter. Either way, being in a HYDRA cell it’s never an enjoyable experience, doesn’t matter if you’re only visiting and not coming as a captive.

There aren’t that many cells, the place smaller than other facilities, that’s why Steve doesn’t waste a lot of time until he finds what he’s been looking for.

 _Hey, friend_ , he greets, lantern in hand.

It’s stupid; he doesn’t know the guy. For starters, the guy is probably dead, been dead for some time. _Still_ , Steve has been hunting this guy’s “signature” for almost a year now, searching the walls of probably hundreds of HYDRA prison cells until he could find _this_. He doesn’t always found one, which makes sense; the guy couldn’t’ve been kept in every goddamn HYDRA facility. Or perhaps he didn’t always find something sharp to scratch with. Or the time. Or the strength. Steve has poured a lot of thought into this, some would say too much. One of the reasons this is only for him to know.

Steve brushes the pads of his fingers over the old stone, tracing the grooves of the indented name on the wall. He stays silent for a minute, one knee digging into the ground and his head bowed. His mind returns to the question: “Who were you?” Who was this one HYDRA prisoner that was stubborn enough to carve his name one time and again all over the HYDRA cells of America?

A silent minute passes. Steve is aware that he should be getting out of here, but he always gets like this when he finally finds the name. This could be the last mark this man left—or, well, the last Steve will ever find. It always feels wrong to just leave, to never get into the quinjet with some information on the captive that got out of his way to show the finger to HYDRA, to tell them “you know what? I still remember who I am.”

“Cap, you there?”

Steve startles and falls backwards, landing on his shield. He takes a moment to thank whoever is up there for his muted comm because no one hears the clank and his yell, the walls reverberating the sound.

He rolls on his stomach. “Yeah, I’m coming,” Steve answers as casual as possible. “Fuck,” he sighs when he silences back the comm. Of course Tony doesn’t understand what “only for emergencies” means.

Propped on his hands, Steve is about to push himself up but he thinks he catches something under the metal cell bench. Steve directs the flash of the lantern at it and, _yes_ , there it is: the guy didn’t write his name twice or a few more times like usually, but there are more than a dozen _Steves_ there.

_You really decided to tell them ‘fuck you’ that day, huh?_

It’s likely that at the beginning Steve’s curiosity got piqued because of a prisoner sharing his name. Yes, something silly, Steve will accept that adjective. But then the name was carved on another cell wall, and then in the next one, and after the fifth, it was like it was following him. And now Steve is the one looking for the carved walls, the little proof that the captive Steve existed.

Steve stares for a little longer at the names, studying them more closely. He inches closer on his stomach. Steve can’t help but think that these carvings look a bit more frantic, jagged, more… crazed. It feels like this Steve just remembered who he was and didn’t have enough time to write it down before forgetting it again.

Steve shakes his head, feeling a wave of coldness running down his spine and making him shiver. He wants to touch one of the grooves as he usually does before leaving, but this time he can’t. He lifts his hand, inches away from the wall but it feels… Steve has the strange feeling that this wall was marked off limits a long time ago.

“Bye, friend,” are his final words, and for some reason, this time the goodbye sounds definitive.

Steve starts walking out of the cell and by the time he has the double doors on sight, he’s already sprinting out of there, climbing stairs three and four at a time, a familiar tingling sensation inside his stomach and sipping up his spine, telling him to get the hell out of there without looking back.

“Finally!” Tony is the first to spot him since the others are already in the quinjet, and gets to his feet. He’s still in the armor, probably because of the great number of times Steve has repeated that just because he thinks there isn’t any threat, it doesn’t mean it’s true.

“Sorry, I…” Steve is shocked to discover that he’s winded. He opens and closes his mouth, trying to say something, but doesn’t find the words. He takes off the cowl.

“You okay?” Tony asks him, tone lacking his usual flippancy. He looks him up and down, his expression so concentrated Steve would swear he’s reading the scans of the HUD if it wasn’t because he’s currently not wearing the helmet.

“I…” Steve tries to speak again, but just can’t. He feels stunned, not only by what he found in the cell and whatever emotion it triggered, but by the fact that it _could_ affect him in such a way, that it caused him to run and be afraid of turning back.

Stepping out of the suit, Tony places a hand on Steve’s shoulder and guides him to the quinjet; Steve follows without protest, gripping tight the cowl against his chest.

“Can we finally blow up this place?” asks Bucky. They don’t _necessarily_ have to, but who doesn’t enjoy fucking up with the good ol’ Nazis?

Steve follows his voice until he sees him, sitting and cleaning one of his guns, hair behind his ear and expression tranquil. Steve doesn’t answer and it seems enough reason for Bucky to frown and lift his head, eyes searching for Steve’s. Bucky is not the only one who notices that something must have happened because the moment the other Avengers look at Steve’s face, something gives him away.

“Everything all right down there, Steve?” Natasha asks, taking a step in his direction.

At last, the trance seems to be broken. “Yes,” Steve confirms, his voice sounding only slightly like he’s swallowing cotton. “Everything clear.”

“Then why does it look like you’ve seen the Big Foot?” Sam asks with one arched eyebrow, enough to convey how little he believes him.

“More like a ghost,” Clint chimes in, arms crossed over his chest and brow furrowed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It sounds so fake, like he’s reading lines from a script, that Steve feels his own face turning red, ears burning. He tries to meet their eyes but can’t, and now they’re surrounding him from all sides.

“Steve,” that’s Bucky calling him and Steve can feel him stepping closer, “you’re shaking.”

“What?” His voice is filled with disbelief and he looks down at his hands when Bucky grabs his arm and ushers him to a seat where he doesn’t sit as much as lets himself fall into. All his team is staring at him, expecting an explanation, and he knows he must look like a complete idiot, his eyes wide open, lips parted but unable to form words.

 _There was blood_ , is the only thing his brain has provided so far. _He carved it with his nails, his fingers._

It shouldn’t be such a shock; after all, in those cells, getting your nails broken or even pulled out was probably one of the mildest things to take place. And still… it makes Steve’s stomach turn, thinking how gone you must be that your priority is to etch into stone your name, not caring about what happens to your hands. His mind tries to take him to darker places and Steve pulls away but… what did that man go through? What things did they see th—

“Steve!” Someone is shaking his shoulders. Faces are swimming back into focus.

“Yeah,” is what his mouth comes up with. It’s like he’s _just_ landed into the jet and Steve has to shake his head and reorient himself. Right. Avengers. HYDRA. Mission. “We have to blow the base.”

No one answers, at first, all his teammates staring at him with worry etched in their faces.

“Clint, get us out of here; we’ll watch the fireworks from the air,” is Bucky who gives the command and Steve has to lower his face, ashamed of his inability to keep his emotions under control. They should probably take away his rank as Captain.

 _Always so dramatic,_ he can almost hear Peggy saying.

No one speaks to him and Steve doesn’t move from his spot. From there he hears the explosions and his teammates’ comments, some of them even cheering. He’s doing a great job of wallowing and blaming himself when there are suddenly shadows looming over him and someone sits by his side.

“You gonna tell us what happened down there?” Sam says with his no-nonsense tone.

Steve wrings his gloveless hands a bit more, now red and a bit irritated but it’s nothing the serum can’t deal with. He shakes his head, not able to find his voice—he wants to say that nothing happened, but he feels overwhelmed for some _stupid reason._ For God’s, sake what is wrong with him all of a sudden?

He’s about to get to his feet and just leave like a little kid with a tantrum, when Tony sits to his right, one hand on his shoulder, and Steve realizes he’s still shaking a little and his legs would probably not support him if right now he decided to use them. He exhales a shaky breath and, even though he doesn’t feel like raising his head up, Steve searches for Bucky’s boots, and—okay, wow, why did that have just a calming effect?

And he tells them. While they return to Avengers Tower, he tells them of that first time they found a HYDRA prison and had to take with them the few captives they discovered in those sickening cells. When Steve narrates the moment he saw for the first time the name, it feels like he’s telling someone else’s secret and he has to force the words out of his mouth.

“So the guy was kept there too?” Natasha asks when Steve reaches the part of the story where they arrived to the last HYDRA facility.

 _There were chains on the wall,_ his brain doesn’t fail to remind him. It’s not something odd; it’s a prison after all and HYDRA isn’t about to give their prisoners a soft bed and a plasma. It doesn’t matter, though; Steve still has to think about all that could have taken place down there.

He finally lifts his head so he can see her face. He nods, still feeling unsettled like he’s missed a step on a staircase and he’s still trying to find his footing while everyone else is on the next floor. At least they’re waiting for him.

At some point during his recapitulation, someone—he can’t recall who exactly—has draped a blanket over his shoulders and he’s finally stopped shaking. He surveys his friends’ faces, finding only empathy and even some curiosity. Steve is bolted to the place and the humiliation won’t let him leave.

“Hmm.” Tony has his chin resting on his hand, still sitting on his right. He has his thinking-face on and that makes Steve smile. “Do you want to find who he was? Maybe if the guy had a family?”

“What?” Steve asks, back straightening up and eyes going huge. Of course he wants that—he has thought about it a million times, but doing it, that’s a totally different story.

“We could try,” Natasha chimes in. “We’ve been collecting the files of every HYDRA base we’ve been blowing up so far,” she reminds him.

Steve blinks, his brain needing a moment to compute the information, the possibilities.

“You shouldn’t,” says someone from the cockpit, the voice having turned so gruff that it takes everyone a moment to recognize who it belongs to. They turn and Steve notices for the first time since he started telling the story that Bucky has left the circle of teammates surrounding him and he’s now looking at Steve sideways.

“What?” Steve must sound like a broken record, or like someone who’s been hit repeatedly in the head with a rock.

“You should let this go,” Bucky says, voice low but able to reach every nook and cranny—Steve feels like he can see Bucky’s voice crawl over the walls... ( _Jesus_ , he needs to get it together.) Then there is only the hum of the jet.

Steve surprises himself getting to his feet. The blanket slips off his shoulders and Tony picks it up even though his eyes are going from Steve to Bucky like this is a tennis game.

“Why would you say that?” His voice sounds betrayed and he’s pretty sure his face must be conveying the same sentiment, but he can’t help it; that’s exactly how he’s feeling right now. Of all the people, he would’ve never thought Bucky would be the one to say they shouldn’t do something to help someone who was a HYDRA prisoner—or at least their family, for them to find some closure.

Bucky gives him another sideways look, from head to toe, and Steve can’t fathom what he’s looking for. Steve’s starting to feel pissed. “Steve, that guy must be dead already. Let it go.”

Bucky is being condescending.

“Fuck you.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch; he most certainly looks like someone who was expecting that exact reaction. Bucky is being condescending _on purpose_ , knowing it will rile Steve up and that way he will lose focus of what he wants to do. Steve’s scowl smoothers on the face of this realization.

“You’re only going to waste your time on some dead bastard,” Bucky continues but Steve can see his intentions now—maybe the others can’t, but he does. “You have a team, Steve, so I don’t think it’s the best idea to just waste resources—”

“It’s not that much,” Steve hears Tony say under his breath behind him, trying to back him up, even when he doesn’t really know what Steve’s final decision will be.

“—and the Avengers’ time in some weird whim of yours.”

Steve stops himself from flinching. The words hurt even when he knows Bucky is saying them because he’s trying to hide something from them, from Steve. Now it’s even easier to hear the urgency in Bucky’s voice, the need for Steve not to look at him, to really see him—quite literally. Bucky has placed himself in front of the glass, the sun illuminating his form from behind and making it difficult to distinguish his features. And still Steve can distinguish the impassive façade and catch the bead of sweat trickling down Bucky’s temple.

Bucky’s behavior isn’t helping Steve’s already mercurial mood.

“I’m the Captain, Buck,” Steve says, fists clenching at his sides and back straight as a pole, “so I get to decide what’s best for the team.”

It’s not like that, every Avenger knows they have a voice in the decision-making process, and Bucky knows it, too; this is just Steve reminding him who’s calling the shots. This is Steve reminding Bucky that when there is Avengers business, all the Steve-weaknesses he knows from when they were kids aren’t going to be enough to make him back down. They weren’t enough before and they won’t be now that he has a team to look after.

There’s complete silence, the six people in the jet almost holding their breath. Then Bucky exits the cockpit without a word and goes deeper into the jet. Steve lets out a deep exhale, feeling sick to his stomach, guilt telling him to follow Bucky even if he was the one trying to provoke him. Even so, Steve knows he wouldn’t do it without a reason.

“Well, that was intense,” Clint points out, followed with a shrill and somewhat uncomfortable laugh.

“What’s wrong with your boy?” asks Sam with an arched eyebrow.

“I’ll talk with him when we arrive to the tower,” is the only answer he offers, slumping against the bench, his muscles feeling drained. He catches Tony opening his mouth and Natasha taking a step in his direction, and Steve hurries to add, “We’ll talk later about… the… Steve prisoner.”

His team nods and everyone finds something to do, letting him be alone with his thoughts.

 

Steve has managed to fall into an almost meditative-state when Clint informs them that they’re going to arrive in five minutes. When they land, Bucky is the first to disembark, rifle over his shoulder. Steve’s jaw twitches and he has to take a calming breath. Bucky is being infuriating on purpose.

“Okay, team, debriefing and then we’re free,” Steve reminds them, already spotting Tony trying to edge away and hide. He hears a series of protest but everyone follows.

“Excuse me, but if I blow you can I skip this shit, too?” Tony asks. Steve would chastise him but his mind is occupied right now, thinking too hard about what could have caused Bucky’s odd behavior.

“He’s not skipping anything,” Steve says.

Bucky doesn’t come to the meeting room. Steve delays the debriefing five, almost ten minutes, but when J.A.R.V.I.S. informs them that Bucky is taking a shower while the rest of the team, still bruised and sweaty, are going to endure more than half an hour of summarizing the day…

“Are you going to do something or do I have to go and cut off his balls?” Maria Hill says, a muscle twitching in her jaw.

“Sorry, I’ll talk with him.”

And now he’s undeniably pissed. The time it takes to get to Bucky’s floor (he decides to take the stairs), Steve invests in breathing and getting his anger under control before he tries and talk anything with Bucky. Something is going on with Bucky, that much is obvious, but it’s not reason enough for him to do whatever he wants. If Bucky doesn’t want to help Steve and the team, that’s okay, he is certainly not obligated to do anything. Or if the mere mention of another HYDRA prisoner makes memories resurface, then he should say something. But this kind of cold-shoulder conduct is maddening.

The door to the apartment is unlocked and Steve enters without knocking or announcing his presence in any other fashion. There is no sound of water running so the must have finished with his shower.

“Captain Rogers,” the A.I. says from the ceiling speakers, voice suspiciously low in volume now, “if you would allow my meddling, Sargent Barnes seems to be agitated.”

“Is he hurt?” Steve asks, not getting further into the apartment.

“Not that I know of.” Which could be a “no”, knowing the A.I. “But his heart rate has been quite elevated since he arrived at the Tower.”

“Thanks, J.A.R.V.I.S.”

“You’re welcome, Captain.”

Steve takes a deep breath and makes his way to Bucky’s room, not before he leaves the shield propped against a wall. The door isn’t completely closed and Steve feels his stomach doing a backflip the moment he puts his hand over the handle and pushes it open. He must have just exited the bathroom because he’s wearing a towel around his hips and he’s using another to dry his hair. Bucky is sitting on the bed, back to the door, and Steve feels his confidence waver a bit, part of his anger vaporizing when he sees his slumped shoulders and bowed head, the picture of defeat.

“Buck,” Steve calls him, hardening his tone as well as his back, not wanting Bucky to find any cracks the moment he turns to face him.

But Bucky doesn’t answer, still drying his long hair with the towel. Steve’s brow furrows and he clears his throat, _loudly_. Nothing. “Are we really going to do this?”

Still nothing and Steve can’t help but scoff.

It’s not the first time Steve has to deal with an insubordinate attitude from a teammate or soldier, and more than once Bucky has given him shit because he hasn’t agreed with Steve’s decisions, but never like this. They would talk, scream in each other faces, and reach a conclusion, but never ignore one another in such a childish manner. Watching Bucky’s back is making Steve’s blood boil.

Steve takes three large strides until he’s in front of Bucky, his face obscured by his hair and that _damn towel_. “You skipped debriefing,” Steve says, voice harder than a rock, reverberating between the four walls, and stern enough to make a drill instructor shit their pants. Bucky’s arms don’t stop their repetitive motion. “You’re actually doing this.” He can’t keep the disbelief out of his tone this time; Bucky has never done this kind of dumb shit.

Steve has gotten so annoyed of looking at the white towel that he just grabs and plucks it off Bucky’s hands, throwing it behind his back. He needs to see Bucky’s expression because this is ridiculous and Steve doesn’t know what to do in such a situation. Bucky’s arms hover on the air, though, and Steve is even more confused and vexed, already sensing that he’s running out of patience.

“I swear to God, Buck,” Steve gets the words between greeted teeth, arms crossed and fingers digging into his own biceps, “if I don’t get an explanation you’ll be forcing me to bench you. I’ll have to report this kind of conduct! No more missions, no m—!”

Bucky’s movements are slow, that’s why Steve needs a moment to understand what he’s doing. Bucky, with his head still bowed and his hair a mess, has his hands over his head, as if he’s trying to resume drying his hair… now without the towel.

“Buck, stop that.”

At first, Steve thinks he’s being mocked—the situation has reached such levels of weird—so he grabs one of Bucky’s arms, expecting to have to force it away, but this is not the case and the human arm comes away, the other one freezing in the air, and Steve with it.

Steve’s senses are more alert now, focused on the man before him, and he can hear Bucky’s rapid and irregular breathing. Steve crouches in front of him, realizing that something is happening with Bucky. Telegraphing his movements, Steve reaches a hand and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear so he can discern Bucky’s face. Steve says his name at least three times before Bucky’s face gives something that could be called a twitch of recognition.

“Steve?” Steve assumes that was what the sound that came out of Bucky’s throat is supposed to mean. Bucky’s chin lifts from his chest but his eyes don’t seem to be focusing on Steve’s face.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he assures, voice turned gentle. Steve’s hands hover over Bucky’s form and his stomach plummets to his feet. He finally renders it safe to touch Bucky and places his hands over the other man’s arms; if it wasn’t because he can see them, Steve wouldn’t be sure which arm is the metal one because of how cold Bucky’s skin is. Steve gives himself two more seconds to look like someone who’s just been hit over the head with a baseball bat and then gets to his feet.

“Come on, pal, let’s get you some warm clothes.” Bucky doesn’t answer; Steve was expecting the reaction. He doesn’t move or acknowledge Steve’s presence again; this is going to present a bit more of a problem.

At least that is what he thinks until he gets his now gloveless hands around Bucky’s shoulders and pulls a little… and Bucky just goes with the motion, pliant. Steve doesn’t think too much of it—forces himself not to—and dresses Bucky like a doll into a pair of underwear and then sweatpants, finishing with a t-shirt and one of Steve’s own sweaters that he finds between Bucky’s clothes.

“Steve,” Bucky says this time more clearly.

“Me again, Buck,” Steve answers, having taken a towel and started actually drying Bucky’s hair. Taking care of another person is a great distraction when you don’t want to get deep into your own head.

And then Bucky is repeating his name one time and again in a monotonous tone, a crease between his eyebrows the only thing that could be called a facial expression. Steve stares at him, not sure if he should settle into astonishment or horror. It doesn’t sound like Bucky is trying to get his attention, more like he’s giving the answer to a math problem. He takes Bucky’s face between his palms, squashing down the impulse to squeeze Bucky’s cheeks until he shuts up. It’s a horrible urge, Steve knows this and feels sick, but the thing is, _he is scared_ , Bucky is scaring him. No, scared is a kid’s word compared to the feeling that has sunken its claws in Steve’s brain and it’s going to town on it, gashing at his amygdala.

So Steve is just as still as Bucky, staring at him in horror, skin crawling. Until Bucky starts blinking more frequently, his forehead creasing like he’s having difficulties concentrating. And then he goes silent, swaying on his feet, and Steve finally snaps out of it. He drags Bucky to the bed, making sure he’s not about to fall, and gets him under the covers—and then just looks at him. Bucky stares in return.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, sitting by Bucky’s hip. It feels like he’s talking to no one. He should call someone, Bucky’s therapist, ask J.A.R.V.I.S. for a specialist. There is probably not a lot they can do right now, though, not when Bucky _isn’t even here_.

Steve pushes some hair away from Bucky’s cheek and his fingers linger over the skin. “You’re gonna get better.”

It’s not the first time Bucky’s been in such a state of mind, Steve knows this intellectually, but he still _fears_.

Bucky stares impassively at him and Steve searches his face for those twitches he saw just minutes ago. He sighs, resigned to a long and sleepless night.

“I’m going to get you some water and something to eat,” Steve informs him, 99% sure Bucky’s brain hasn’t registered the words. He probably won’t eat, either.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., tell the others we won’t make it to debriefing, and not to disturb us unless someone’s dying or the world’s in danger,” Steve says once in the kitchen. “Use your better judgment to determine if what Tony understands as an ‘emergency’ is really one and just mute him if you deem it necessary,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Understood, Captain Rogers. I will make sure the other Avengers receives your message.”

“Thanks,” Steve answers in a whisper, washing his hands. He should get out of his suit; maybe even take a really quick shower with the door open, a mirror strategically positioned so he’ll keep an eye on Bucky at all times.

Steve has made the sandwiches already, not feeling up to cooking anything more complicated, and is getting back to Bucky’s room when he feels something like a black cloud crash over him. He has to leave the plates on the table, the dishes clattering, and flop on the floor. The lights are brighter, suddenly, and his head is spinning—Steve realizes he’s drawing breaths too quickly.

Whatever he was trying to escape from in that cursed HYDRA dungeon, it has found him.

His back on the cold floor, Steve lets himself be a wreck for a short minute, just a moment to lose his marbles. His chest going crazy drawing breathes in an erratic way causing his head to feel lighter, tears rolling down his temples, and the sobs can’t even be called that, too broken, too loud. Steve curls on his side and lets it all out.

Then he breathes deep, deep, deep. Exhales. Dries his face with a sleeve. Steadies his hands and takes the plates.

And finds one cruelty after another.

“Buck?” Feeling too calm, Steve places the sandwiches on the dresser and makes his eyes search for Bucky. He hears the scratching, then. Under the bed. He gets on his hands and knees and peers under the bed. “Buck, get out of there, pal.”

Steve doesn’t expect Bucky to do as he’s been told. He doesn’t expect to get kicked in the face and chest the moment he gets his hand over Bucky’s ankle and tugs a little. Should have seen it coming. It doesn’t deter him from getting Bucky back on the bed, though. Steve sighs with resignation and crawls under the bed, Bucky not paying him any attention now that Steve isn’t touching him.

The same way the walls and some of the wood furniture are scrawled over, so is the floor. Bucky is using a broken pen. Steve lies on his side, observing him. He wants to stop Bucky, wants to burn the pen, burn the room, wants to get his friend under a ton of blankets. But it doesn’t feel right. This is something Bucky has to get out of his system and Steve doesn’t need any more proof to know that this is the first time he gets to do it without someone… stopping him. Steve doesn’t want to know what happened to whoever got between Bucky and his writing-on-walls process—or whatever they did to him to make him stop doing this.

With a chilling tremor, Steve lets his head thump against the floor and waits for Bucky to find some semblance of peace.

 

Bucky crashed after too many hours.

Steve had to follow him out from under the bed when there wasn’t a patch of wood that wasn’t scratched over, but he resumed on another wall. After an hour, when the pen was nothing but broken pieces, Steve had to find him another thing to carve with so Bucky would stop using his fingers, not realizing that he could just use the ones of his metal arm.

He had to watch him closely even while he stripped out of his suit and put one of Bucky’s t-shirts and sweatpants.

The moment he crashed, Steve wasn’t expecting it; there hadn’t been any signs to indicate that Bucky was just going to collapse. Steve had been close so he caught him in time. Steve had looked at his face, gaunt but lax, and had debated between breaking down crying or… no, that had been his only option. After a second, his brain had come with the great idea to scoop Bucky up and get him under the covers of Steve’s own bed. Their apartments are on the same floor, so it hadn’t taken too long, but still Steve had almost jogged like someone with a fire crackling under his ass. He had felt the urge to inspect and touch every inch of Bucky so he could make sure he was all right and not only alive, and for that he needed to put him on a bed.

Steve can’t take his eyes off him, now, reassuring himself that, yes, Bucky is under these blankets, he’s warm, he’s getting his rest, you can stop hovering now, Rogers. But he obviously won’t. Also under the blankets, Steve lies down, one arm over Bucky’s chest, feeling it rise and fall with each breath. He’s not sure he will be able to get any sleep, and if he does, Steve is convinced the carved walls will follow him even there.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., dim the windows.”

Silently, the bedroom sinks into darkness.

 

Steve comes to with Bucky’s eyes boring into his. He needs a minute to decipher what exactly are the pools of grey floating inches from his face. His muscles unclench and his hand goes searching for Bucky’s. For a second, Steve fears he will only find rejection, but Bucky’s hand is already on its own hunt; Steve entwines their fingers. He scoots closer until he can feel Bucky’s breath on his collar and with his other hand cups the nape of his neck, fulfilling his need to feel Bucky. He tries to regulate his respiration.

He’d always known that Bucky must have spent time in some of HYDRA’s cells but it had been kind of a shapeless thought, one that he had never let himself really form. Now his brain, with its eidetic memory, can’t do anything but remind him in an endless loop of every engraved “Steve” he’s seen so far in every prison cell.

“They didn’t like it when I graffitied your name all over their walls—or anyone’s, you know?” are Bucky’s scratchy words. To Steve’s mind comes the image of paint being scraped off a wall. “They always caught me in time, like they had been warned beforehand.”

Steve remembers then the placement of the names, frantically carved somewhere that the guards wouldn’t see them unless they decided to really go looking for it.

Steve can only nod, his cheek rubbing against Bucky’s temple. He blinks rapidly and then screws his eyes shuts when Bucky’s metal arm comes around him and clutches Steve against his chest, breath going notably faster.

“But I would… There was this _maniac_ energy that would come out of nowhere—”

Bucky cuts himself off and Steve doesn’t say anything. He presses his lips against Bucky’s forehead and calmly waits, palm traveling from his nape to his back and up again, fingers scratching lightly against his scalp and weaving around his hair.

“It would take over me, Steve,” Bucky confesses with a trembling voice after a subtle sniff. “I couldn’t think about anything else, it didn’t matter how damaged my body was, _I had to get it out_.”

There is something raw in these last words, something that makes Steve shudder and he draws Bucky closer, taking over him the natural instinct to keep Bucky safe. Steve rubs his back and patiently waits.

“It hurts to try and remember…” Another pause and Bucky sighs something tired, painful. “But it usually happened almost a day after the chair. I think it was the serum making everything come back.”

Steve has many questions, that’s why he stays silent and stashes all the information inside a folder in his mind that he will open only for purpose of self-penalty.

Bucky is putty in his arms, giving Steve the opportunity to just align their bodies head to toe, feel Bucky’s warmth seep into him. It’s a perfect moment to remember that Bucky is alive—that he himself is alive—and that the two of them have made it to the future somehow, together.

“My brain would start buzzing,” Bucky continues, voice quiet but intelligible, “God, it hurt _so fuckin’ much_ , Steve.” Bucky presses his forehead against Steve’s, as though the mere thought of it brings back the torment. Steve can see the way it twists his face, his teeth greeted. “And I had to get it out, had to take it out, I had to, _I had to_ …”

Bucky’s voice dies down and Steve guides his face to his shoulder, where he feels Bucky gasp and then take a deep and calming breath.

“Give yourself a moment, Buck,” Steve suggests, afraid his voice will fail him if he tries to say anything else. His hands are steady, though, and they don’t stop their reassuring touches along Bucky’s body. It feels like Bucky is melting into Steve, and Steve doesn’t want to be the one to stop the process.

“Steve.” Steve fears Bucky has fallen into that disturbing previous state of something not too far away from regression, but then he continues. “It was like a hammer to the head. _Steve._ There were other names but yours was always there. _All the time._ ”

“I’m so sorry,” he makes the words find their way out of his throat and they come out drenched in shame.

“Not your fault.” The words aren’t meant to comfort; they are biting. “Not your fuckin’ fault, Steve, shut up.”

Steve nods, eyes blinking repeatedly and nose sniffling.

“ _Steve._ ” It’s not Bucky calling for him but remembering. “I didn’t know what it meant, not the moment it was eating at my brain. But it was… like an anchor. It was painful and I didn’t understand—I never understood anything with HYDRA, only that there were orders and I was meant to follow them. But I knew it wasn’t HYDRA.”

Another pause and Steve feels grateful for the chance to breathe a painful breath, fill up his loaded lungs and exhale. His hand finds its way to Bucky’s face, thumb rubbing the stubbled cheek and inching up until he can touch the delicate and wet skin of his under-eye. Bucky’s eyes are still closed, wrinkles forming at the corners.

“So you’ve already found him—your HYDRA prisoner.”

“Oh God,” Steve gasps, unable to take it anymore and something in him cracks, chest quivering with half-suppressed sobs. Steve wraps himself around Bucky, not sure for whose benefit. Bucky doesn’t hold him with any less strength.

“I’m so sorry.” What is Steve apologizing for, though? For making Bucky relive it? For being under the ice and not with Bucky while he was being tortured and used? For existing?

Bucky doesn’t try to convince him it wasn’t his fault, knowing Steve too well. He only draws back a few inches and places his lips over Steve’s, noses bumping lightly. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Part of Steve wants to refute, but Bucky’s hands forcing Steve to face him are enough to shut him up. “Let’s make it not matter, Stevie.”

And if Bucky is strong enough to smile at him…

**Author's Note:**

> Endgame is nearing and I’m scared shitless, guys!!
> 
> That aside, I had this little idea stuck in my head for maybe almost a year. I would be really happy if you guys dropped some comments and told me what you thought of this!  
> (Pretty sure you all knew what was going on from the beginning but I like to think I’m sneaky and clever.)
> 
> And as a final note, if you like this little fic, let me spam you with my other longer and already finished fic. Yes, it is a Tony centric fic but GUYS you cannot believe how much stucky is in that fic, not even I was expecting it! But, yeah, it’s a Tony centric fic cause I love my genius son.


End file.
